


Portentially Awkward

by FancyTrinkets



Series: Portentially Awkward [2]
Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Accidental Voyeurism, Awkward Conversations, Awkwardness, F/M, Fluff, Fluff and Humor, Implied Sexual Content, Ineffable Husbands (Good Omens), M/M, POV Female Character, POV Outsider, Party, Romance, Some Humor
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-21
Updated: 2019-07-21
Packaged: 2020-07-10 01:44:32
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,652
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19897831
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FancyTrinkets/pseuds/FancyTrinkets
Summary: Anathema was under the impression that hosting a garden party would be good for her. She felt compelled to do something special to mark the one-year anniversary of the failed Apocalypse. She didn't know how to explain it, but shewantedthe angel and demon to be there.I wrote asilly ficletinvolving accidental voyeurism. This is what happens next.





	Portentially Awkward

**Author's Note:**

> Warnings: Context is sexual relationship with Aziraphale/Crowley. Anathema might have an unexamined, unintentionally acquired angel/demon kink. And Agnes might have tried to warn her. It's _portentially_ quite awkward.

Anathema was under the impression that hosting a garden party would be good for her.

She felt compelled to do something special to mark the one-year anniversary of the failed Apocalypse. Though she didn't actually remember that day very well, in all its specifics, she had a vague sense of the important things — the prophecies, the people involved, the place they'd gathered to make whatever-it-was not happen.

She decided to deliver the invitations in person, because she'd been reading lately about the importance of personal connection in this increasingly digital age. Also, the kids lived just down the road. They liked opening cards and she liked the gleeful ferocity of their faces as they tore open the envelopes.

They all agreed they'd be there. 

Madame Tracy had promised, too, while warmly clasping Anathema's hands and thanking her for thinking of them. She would love to attend and would persuade her companion, retired witchfinder Shadwell, to join her. 

The only ones Anathema wasn't sure about were the angel and the demon. 

They'd been very _occupied_ the day she'd visited. The image of them together was now burned permanently into her mind. A strange thing to walk in on: It hadn't felt illicit — like catching a pair of your acquaintances in the act of ravishing each other silly, though of course that was exactly what they'd been doing. It had been more like disturbing something sacred — like being a tourist at a cathedral, opening the door to a side chapel and discovering she'd walked into a private wedding uninvited.

And yes, it had been awkward enough that she forgot to hand over the invitations, but that might also have been the head injury affecting her. Hard to be sure.

So instead of extending a warm personal invitation, she had to jam their cards hastily through the mail slot in the front door, which had swiftly locked itself behind her after she'd backed out. All that to say, she didn't know if they would actually show up for the garden party.

She expressed those worries to Newt later that day, though without going into much detail. It didn't seem right to invade their privacy all over again by telling the story.

"They're both sort of scary, I think," Newt said.

"That's only because they're powerful immortal entities who could turn you into a pillar of salt just by looking at you."

"Oh," he said. "That's one from the Bible, isn't it? So, yes, one of them might actually have done–"

"No," she reassured him. "I don't think so." 

"Well," he said. "I wouldn't worry so much if they don't show up. The rest of us normal, not scary humans will have a lovely time on our own, I expect."

He was trying to bolster her spirits. Newt was usually quite good at it, and yet this time, she didn't feel bostered. She didn't know how to explain it, but she _wanted_ the angel and demon to be there.

That's why, on the afternoon of the party, she greeted them with such honest delight when she spotted them across the hedge. 

The angel smiled as he handed over a bottle of wine, as a gift. 

"Wouldn't have missed it," he said.

They were the last to arrive. 

In the garden, a picnic table was laid out with grilled meats and skewered vegetables and sophisticated sandwiches sliced into very small triangles. Unfortunately, Brian had just spilled a giant, full pitcher of lemonade onto everything and now there was ample shouting and jostling from all four of the children. Adam was scolding Dog, who had climbed onto the table to lap where the lemonade pooled. 

"I'll get a towel!" Newt called out to her across the yard. He was standing up — pointing to the spill, then to the house — seemingly eager to exit the conversation he'd been having with Shadwell. 

"Thank you, sweetie!" she shouted back to him, then turned around again to open the gate for Aziraphale and Crowley.

"Oh, no need to bother," the angel said and with a wave of his hand, the gate swung open all by itself. At the table, the lemonade cleaned itself, the pitcher refilled.

"Whoa," said Pepper. "Adam, give me your phone!"

The former Antichrist had somehow convinced his parents to buy him a mobile phone for his twelfth birthday. Pepper snatched it off the table.

"I'm uploading a video the next time either of them does something magic!"

She eyed the newly arrived guests, who were just seating themselves, and then she looked at the perfectly restored pitcher of lemonade. She grinned and then deliberately knocked it over.

"Oh, no, that's not a good idea–" Aziraphale began.

Crowley simply lifted a finger, simultaneously restoring the lemonade and locking Pepper out of the phone.

"Hey, what the–?" She tapped the screen. A message appeared.

"It says, 'Incorrect glyph. You have 665 attempts remaining until the phone'... er, what?"

She held the screen up for Anathema, who leaned in and read the last part aloud. "Disapparates to a nether realm."

"Hey," said Adam, and grabbed his phone back. "What'd you go and do that for?" 

"I'll give you a hint," Crowley said. His eyes were glinting with mischief; he wasn't wearing sunglasses. "It's the glyph for _password123_ in Ancient Mu."

"Oh, really, darling." Aziraphale tutted him. "Was that entirely neccessary?"

"Fine," said Crowley, and unlocked the phone.

By then, Newt had returned with a towel. "Oh," he said observantly. "No more spill."

"But very sweet of you, nonetheless." Madame Tracy looked up at the young man and patted his hand to reassure him.

"Oh. Thank you," Newt replied.

From his lawn chair set back from the table, Shadwell grumbled something about the wiles of witches, but Anathema — and everyone else — ignored him.

Anathema sighed. Garden parties were shaping up to be nicer in concept than in execution. All at once she felt the burden of what she'd signed herself up for: keeping an eye on four rowdy children, two powerful entities, and a grouchy old man who wasn't overly fond of witches. She immediately resented Agnes for it — not for any logical reason, but rather because old habits were hard to shake, even a full year after burning the manuscript.

But then Newt was there, offering her a plate of food, taking the bottle of wine to bring inside, squeezing her shoulder and wrinkling his nose in a happy smile. That filled her with a wave of relief. She smiled, burden lifted, and sat down to eat her food next to Adam, who eagerly started in on a series of groan-inducing jokes he had promised to tell her.

☆

Throughout their lunch, Anathema kept a discreet watch on the angel and demon. In contrast to Crowley, who nibbled on one small sandwich, Aziraphale filled his plate with a sampling of everything. He made delighted sounds and faces as he ate a bite of each new thing, and Crowley watched him, smiling fondly the whole time.

They were so weird. 

Madame Tracy struck up a conversation with Aziraphale. Rather, she asked him a series of questions — about his health, his bookshop, his business, and the like — and Aziraphale offered politely reassuring, but vague answers. Shadwell glared at him suspiciously, until Crowley got up from the table, approached the old wichfinder, and bent down to whisper something only Shadwell could hear. After that, the man looked sensibly intimidated, and stopped glaring so hard at the angel.

Crowley straightened up and as he turned back towards the table, he caught Anathema looking at him. The same moment he grinned at her was the instant she felt the vibration of her phone in her skirt pocket. She brought it out and saw a new text message. 

_Relax, I won't mess up your lovely party._ The message was followed by a snake emoji and a smiling devil face. There was no phone number.

She remembered Newt's words. _They're sort of scary._ He was right, of course, but she couldn't help herself. She wanted to have a conversation with each of them, get to know them a little better. Maybe ask them a few questions about what it was like to have lived through the entirety of human history.

But for now, she set her phone aside and turned back to Adam with a terrible joke of her own. "Have you heard the one about the burglar who cried all the time?"*

☆

As for the burning of the manuscript, she was foolish enough to mention that particular detail to Aziraphale later in the afternoon.

"No. You didn't?!" For a moment, the look on his face was a maelstrom of anguish and bewilderment.

Before that, he'd been blithely chattering on about a misprinted bible and other blasphemous works in his collection. She felt compelled to contribute something to the conversation. They were on the topic of Agnes' publisher when it all just spilled out, unbidden, into a great mess of words. 

After what she'd told him, he needed to sit down. So she sat beside him and tried to explain the terrible burden of it — of having to be a certain way instead of just being yourself and living your life. The way it prodded you and forced you down a path without asking your permission first. How she couldn't continue to live like that.

"I understand," he said, once she'd finally finished spilling words at him. But he still sounded dazed by the enormity of her confession. 

"Do you really understand?" she asked. "Or are you just saying that to make me feel better?"

"Oh, both," he said sorrowfully.

But then his gaze shifted across the yard, over to Crowley. 

The demon was standing in front of Adam's mobile phone, which was held aloft by Pepper. His left hand was presently on fire, and a plume of dark smoke rose up from the flame. He blew on it and the fire disappeared, his hand reemerging uncharred and unscathed. He flexed his fingers and the blaze returned, in a shade of alluring purple this time.

"That's bloody brilliant– What? No! Stop it, the camera's glitched! I can't get a video!" Pepper's high-pitched glee dissolved into despair. 

"That's too bad." Crowley didn't sound sorry at all. He snapped his fingers and the fire went green with red polkas dots.

"Nooo," Pepper lamented. She shook the phone violently.

Anathema looked back at Aziraphale, at his openly adoring smile. 

"You love him," she said.

He smiled at her. "Oh, had you noticed?" He seemed to glow with it for a moment, all that love.

"I like that," she said.

Not that he needed her approval or anything, but that wasn't what she meant. She liked the way they looked at each other. She liked that their auras greeted each other like lovers and mirrored each other like old friends. 

She added, "I like living in a world where there's an angel and a demon who love each other. I like that you both showed up, like the rest of us, to try and save the world."

"Well, thank you, my dear. We're both rather fond of the world, you see, and thought it should be worth saving. Ah," he added. "Now perhaps another of those sandwiches."

She felt brighter after talking to him, refreshed and content. She imagined a garden, a long time ago, beneath a clearing sky after a steady rain. 

Angels were fascinating creatures.

☆

Her chat with Aziraphale had gone well enough that she felt emboldened to wander over to Crowely and attempt a conversation with him, as well.

He was standing alone, admiring the garden as the sun went down. Darkness was creeping in at the margins and all the human guests had said their goodbyes and gone home. 

"That doesn't look like a lemonade." She eyed his drink.

"Not anymore," Crowley said. "Demonic vodka tonic." He jiggled the glass, which rattled the ice cubes. 

"If I don't have a drink when he starts in on _that_ –" He pointed behind him, to the table where Aziraphale was deeply engrossed in teaching Newt to do a magic trick. "–then I can't. It's all over."

"What's all over?"

"Dignity."

"Ah," she said.

The magic trick involved a coin, a glass, and a handkerchief. When it was Newt's turn, he reached for the glass and immediately fumbled it to the ground. Anathema watched as her boyfriend dived under the table to retrieve it. She tilted her head, watching him scramble for it. 

"I know how you feel," she said.

In reply, Crowley clinked his glass with hers, because suddenly she was holding a vodka tonic of her own. 

Anathema laughed. And then, to interrupt the silence that followed, she let some words happen, just as awkwardly as she'd done with Aziraphale earlier.

"You know, I wouldn't have thought that a demon would have a boyfriend."

He looked at her.

"Curious about other people's business, aren't we?"

"A little," she admitted.

Crowley smiled into his drink as he gulped down the last of it. 

"So, tell me about cottages in quiet little villages away from the city," he said. "Worth a go?"

"Are you asking me if you should buy a cottage?"

"If I wanted one, I wouldn't have to buy it."

"That's convenient," she said.

"Should I want one?"

This was not the kind of conversation she'd been expecting. Anathema had no idea how to advise a demon in matters of real estate. She took a stab at it anyway, because he seemed sincere.

"For him?" she asked.

She glanced back to the table, where Aziraphale was gently handing a small white rabbit over to Newt. Crowley turned to follow her gaze and was now watching the magic lesson unfold. 

"Oh, no," he said, "not the rabbits. I hate the rabbits."

His glass was full again and he threw back another gulp of vodka.

"Of course for him," he added.

"Well," she said, venturing towards an invitation. "The two of you could stay the night in the guest room. You could think of it as a cottage trial run. If you don't like it, you'll know not to get one."

He grinned at her. "Offering up a guest bedroom! You know it's not a proper deal with a demon unless you ask for something in return?"

"I'm being a gracious host, not making a deal," she clarified. "But since it amuses you so much, for your part you can make sure the sheets are clean after you've left."

He laughed. And for a moment, he looked like he was formulating a thought — something devious — but then opted not to say it.

The yard had grown dark around them. Back at the table, a rabbit was making a run for it.

☆

Hours later, Anathema rested her head against Newt as they snuggled in bed.

"Sweetie," she said. "Do you suppose it's good luck if an angel has an orgasm in your guest bedroom?"

"That's an oddly specific hypothetical," Newt said. And then, after a brief silence, the implication dawned on him. "Ohhh."

"Yes, yes. But good luck, do you think?"

"Ehh," he ventured. 

"Or would the demon sort of, cancel it out? With the bad luck? I mean if they both– Sort of an orgasm stalemate?"

"You could always ask them in the morning. Over breakfast?"

"Best not to," she said.

But she wondered what they were doing right now. With each other. In her guest room. An angel and a demon. Who liked to fuck each other. Why on earth was that so compelling?

She wondered, as she began to drift asleep, if this weird new voyeuristic impulse of hers was something to worry about. 

Or if, perhaps, Newt might indulge her in some bedroom roleplay. He'd make a dashing angel, she thought, with a halo and wings and the right sort of flowing robes...

—  
* He took things, personally. Back to text


End file.
